It’s very like the periodic table:
the alphabet contains the universe,
and pluriverse, and all the other verse.
It’s all there: every line that you were able
to write, remember, recollect, regret.
The elements of style, of savoir faire,
of awkward syllables of guilt, of pain,
the a to z of trying to explain,
the how and why it turned out you weren’t there;
the alphabet ensures you can’t forget.

Arrange yourselves. Like leaves. Like dice. Like grains
of sand let trickle through an outstretched hand:
I need new words, a language that explains
without requiring me to understand.